


Astray

by butterycornbread



Category: Dangan Ronpa: Trigger Happy Havoc
Genre: Assisted Suicide, Blood and Gore, Established Relationship, Heavy Angst, M/M, Self-Sacrifice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:00:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25210537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/butterycornbread/pseuds/butterycornbread
Summary: It’s the final three, and Byakuya has one last trick up his sleeve.
Relationships: Naegi Makoto/Togami Byakuya
Comments: 3
Kudos: 163
Collections: mhm





	Astray

Byakuya had never believed in luck.

He knew full well what people thought of him. He heard it when gossips assumed he was absorbed in the dull chitchat of high society socials.  _ Oh, there he is, the young heir. Isn’t he lucky to have been born into all this. Mm, and he probably doesn’t even realize it. Lucky little bastard. Shall we try the shrimp? _

They had no idea.

Luck had nothing to do with Byakuya’s life. He had been designed by committee, preconceived before he was actually conceived, cultivated by his family. Generations had been building up to him, refining the craft of what it meant to be Togami with every iteration. It was his blessing and his curse. None of it had been his choice; the blue blood pumping so excellently through his veins was a nonstop reminder that he was to be perfection.

If beauty was pain, perfection was death. Though he would never admit it to anyone—no, not even Naegi—he had killed himself to achieve this. How many nights had he collapsed into bed, every muscle in his body exhausted? How many pills had he swallowed, how many drops had he put into his eyes, how many careful dabs of concealer had he applied—all to desperately ward off the headaches, dry eyes, and darkened skin that came from studying all night long? How many bodies had he watched, longed after, burned for, but never allowed himself to touch?

Well. Until Makoto.

Byakuya had intended to get out of this deadly game with his perfection unscathed. Murder meant little to him; blood could be washed away if only one had the dedication to scrub long enough, and Byakuya had never lacked dedication. Scheming, lying, damning, killing—all of these he had prepared himself for when the game was first introduced.

He had not thought himself capable of falling in love.

If that’s even what this was. He wasn’t entirely convinced he was not just losing his mind, although he liked to think he possessed more mental fortitude than that. He’d made it this far, after all. Kyoko was smart, dangerously so, but he still felt confident he could be the last survivor. The only survivor.

Which meant Makoto would die.

Unbeknownst to the fluffy-haired boy and the violet-eyed girl, Byakuya had spent the past week pacing the nights away in his room, trying to think of some way they could win together. He’d even dared to ask the bear if two victors were allowed, but all he’d gotten was a giggle that seemed a tad too  _ knowing _ to be safe. So he’d have to do this himself.

He wasn’t surprised. He’d been doing things himself his whole life. Nothing had changed.

No, he realized as he pushed the note through the gap beneath Makoto’s door, something had definitely changed. He was doing this by himself, but—for the first time in his life—he wasn’t doing it  _ for _ himself.

He slunk into the kitchen. The security camera rotated to watch him with its beady eye. He raised an eyebrow at it in return. Perhaps it was a good thing, to finally have someone bear witness to the Togami toil. He’d been so alone . . .

Fitting that he could only shed the curse when there was no hope for a happy life afterward. Still, he couldn’t be truly surprised. He had been born choking on a silver spoon. Freedom had never been an option for Byakuya Togami.

Because no one was there to criticize him, he allowed himself to sigh.

Was he afraid? Yes. No.

But the thought of Kyoko abandoning her fragile little alliance with Makoto . . .

And the thought of what he himself might be pushed to do if it was only him and Makoto left . . .

Byakuya snatched a knife from the rack. Short, thin, blade delicate but sturdy, metal pristine enough he could see a sliver of his reflection. He looked from it to the veins in his wrist, tirelessly pumping, performing the miracle of keeping him alive.

Yes. He was afraid.

But that didn’t matter now. Makoto would be here in a handful of minutes, larger or smaller depending when he noticed the note. Byakuya hoped the little fool wasn’t already asleep. This would all be for nothing. It could not be.

When it came down to it, fear meant nothing. It had, after all, always been there. Rejection, failure, embarrassment, irrelevance: these were the fears that haunted him every second of every day. His eventual demise had never really occurred to him.

When it came down to it, fear had no power over him. He knew what he was doing. He believed it was the right thing to do. It was a stupid,  _ stupid _ thing, but that didn’t mean it was wrong. Right?

When it came down to it, really, fear was an old friend.

* * *

Makoto knew to watch for notes. Byakuya had been slipping them to him for days, always just after nighttime bell, always with the instruction to shred them before he put them in the trash. Makoto was getting good at shredding by hand. It almost reminded him of unwrapping presents . . .

Tonight’s note was different.

_ If you still want to do it, _

_ meet me in the kitchen. _

_ It has to be tonight. _

_ I can’t take it anymore. _

His writing, usually neat and elegant, was frenzied, slanted, like he’d scribbled it without even looking at the page. There were no disposal instructions on the front or the back. And the  _ it _ he was referring to could only be one thing, but Byakuya had  never mentioned anything like this. They hadn’t come to any agreement as the note implied. Unless Makoto was defaulting to morbid thoughts inappropriately—this school had definitely infected his psyche, no doubts there—but what else could  _ it _ mean? He was pretty sure Kyoko knew about the trysts in the archive room. So it had to be . . .

_ Suicide? _

The word hissed through his thoughts, a slithering serpent with toxic venom. Byakuya was so brave, so strong, so . . . regal. He would never do something like that. He would never give in. This had to be part of some plan. Makoto tucked the note into his pocket and headed for the dining hall.

Only when he had his hand on the door did he wonder if this was a trap.

_ No. Byakuya wouldn’t do that to me.  _ He had to trust him; what did he have left, otherwise?

When he stepped into the kitchen, he realized the answer might already be nothing.

Makoto had thought, naively, that he’d grown numb to the sight of corpses and gore after his time in this hellish academy. He had no idea how much love could amplify horror. He couldn’t even move, could barely breathe. He stared.

Byakuya was lying on the floor near the counter, in a pool of his own blood. A knife rested beside his left hand; the other wrist was a nightmare of tissue and crimson. Blood was still flowing, oozing, dripping. Makoto had never seen Byakuya’s face so pale.

Then he turned his head to glare and Makoto and said, “Don’t just stand there.”

His voice was a bit thin, breathy, but it was still Byakuya. Strong, always. Makoto dove to his knees by his side and tried to help him up. “Come on, we have to get you to the nurse’s office. Did Kyoko—”

“Don’t.”

The tone, as usual, left no room for negotiation. Makoto stared down at him, speechless. What was he plotting this time? Could he . . . could he really be . . .

“Don’t tell me you’re still confused.” Byakuya picked up the knife rather awkwardly with his good hand, smearing it with more bloody fingerprints. “You might think Kyoko your friend, but I know how this will go. She will win.”

Makoto shook his head. “No, she wouldn’t do that, I know—”

“How many times do I have to tell you.” Cold, royal eyes bored into Makoto. “Stop judging others based on your own morals. She is a wildcard. And you’re . . .” His gaze fell to the middle distance, then he shook his head slightly and reached for Makoto’s hand. When he offered his palm—amazed that Byakuya could even move his ravaged wrist—Byakuya pressed the knife handle into his palm. Makoto tried to pull back, but Byakuya closed his other hand over the grip, a seal of blood.

“You have to win,” Byakuya said, words laced with a faint growl. “She’ll think we had a suicide pact, but you were too much of a coward. She’ll vote for me as the killer. You’ll win.”

True horror swept through Makoto, shivering down his spine and churning in his stomach. He wanted this to be a bad dream. He hadn’t thought he meant this much to anyone. Swearing not to kill your friends was one thing; inaction was Makoto’s specialty, until this all began. But to kill yourself so someone else could live . . . What had Makoto done to be so worthy of this sacrifice?

“No,” he tried, helpless. “No. I—I could do it, instead, and you can say you killed me. You’re scary, she’ll believe that. Then  _ you _ can win.”

Byakuya’s eyes sparked with derision. “I am doing this to save your life. Show some gratitude, you pathetic little . . .” He had to catch his breath. He was fading, no matter what Makoto wanted. This only had one ending. “Regardless, you really are too much of a coward to do this to yourself.”

And he was right. As always.

“I’m sorry,” Makoto said softly, tears gathering in his eyes.

Scorn already filled Byakuya’s gaze, but something dark entered it as well. “Do it wherever you like,” he said as if he was ordering at a restaurant and telling the waiter to surprise him for the appetizer. “Slit my throat. Stab me in the thigh. Just make sure it’s an artery. I want it over quickly.”

Makoto shook his head again, struggling to blink his tears away. “Please . . .”

Byakuya looked up at him, then away. He breathed a long, slow exhale through his nose. Then he took the knife from Makoto’s hands and instead placed them—so much smaller than his own—around his neck.

Makoto’s eyes widened anew, but, when he saw the look on Byakuya’s face, everything in him quieted. He was right, and he knew it. He’d come to terms with this. It was the only way.

“It’s survival,” Byakuya said, and Makoto felt the shift of the words beneath his fingers. “Haven’t I taught you that yet?”

Makoto suddenly saw the scene from outside himself. For one endless, crystal second, he was apart from the dread and fright and grief. He saw himself kneeling at Byakuya’s side, hands and knees covered in blood, face and eyes bright with unfallen tears. Even with his blood all over the floor and his legs messily splayed and his glasses crooked from his descent, Byakuya still looked more refined than Makoto ever would. Whether he went to meet a god or a devil or something else entirely, he would not be found wanting.

“I love you,” Makoto whispered. The first and the last time.

Byakuya let go of his wrists, but only to reach into his pocket. He was getting clumsier by the second; he’d robbed himself of the effortless grace he’d always exuded. For Makoto. This was Byakuya’s gift to him. And what gift had Makoto given him, all those weeks ago, so rife with mayhem and despair it felt like a lifetime?

Byakuya opened his fist. A tiny dandelion toy rested on his palm.

“I still can’t believe you thought I would want something so worthless,” he said. Every few words required a small breath between now. If this was what showed, Makoto could only imagine how Byakuya felt within.

And that, right there, was the truth of him. It drove Makoto to speak.

“It’s not about that! It’s—it’s—I gave it to you because it reminded me of you. Because you make me feel like, even when everything is unraveling . . . eventually, it might all come back together again.”

Byakuya stared at him, and the darkness came back to his eyes. “I—” His voice cracked and he cleared his throat, all of him abruptly harsh. “I’m almost sad I won’t get to see you stumble through one last trial.”

Makoto’s tears were falling in earnest now—never again, this was ending, this wonderfully terrible ordeal was about to be over, and everything would be worse—and he opened his mouth to beg for Byakuya to just kill him while he still had the strength, before he could change his mind, and that way whatever they faced next they could do it as a team.

Byakuya grabbed the front of Makoto’s hoodie and yanked him down close enough that his breath warmed Makoto’s ear. When his voice came, it was breathless and soft in a way Makoto had never heard before.

“You were right . . . you were lucky . . . to have me.”

Weeks ago, it would have been just another of the rich boy’s self-centered speeches. Now, it was the last words of the only person Makoto had ever surrendered himself to, and the only person who would ever loved him enough to give up everything for him.

His throat burned, but he swallowed his sobs. He brushed his tears away on the shoulders of his blazer. Byakuya was being strong for him. This was the least he could do in return.

He pulled back a little, but stopped when Byakuya’s grip tightened again. They were nearly nose to nose. He expected it, but his heart still shattered when Byakuya kissed him. Just a moment, perfectly chaste, the tenderest touch Byakuya had ever bestowed upon him. When Makoto looked at him again, his eyes were closed.

And then, there was nothing left to do but  _ it. _

It lasted far longer than Makoto thought it would. Every second was an eternity. In the end, Byakuya was not a true master of his body—he fought and scratched and jerked, but he was too weak to be triumphant. His wings had been clipped; down he fell from his flight. Makoto was wailing by the time Byakuya went still, but he held his neck until he was gone, and then he kept holding him after that until morning and Kyoko found him: the Boy of Blood and Tears.

* * *

It started and ended in the elevator.

The trial was over. Short and sweet. Shockingly, he’d been given the choice to watch Kyoko’s execution, and he’d said no. He almost thought, thinking back, that she’d had a knowing, maybe even rueful glint to her eye when she voted for Byakuya as the blackened. Was it possible that she’d known all—

He couldn’t stand to think about it. Any of it. In fact, he couldn’t stand at all. He stepped back until he hit the cold metal wall and slid to the cold metal floor. He put his head in his hands, felt sorrow well up in his chest, but no tears came. He’d cried them all last night.

He hadn’t been given the chance to wash up or get changed, so he still had Byakuya’s blood stained into his hands and clothes. He shut his eyes, but all he could see was the life-light vacating Byakuya’s fine-boned face.

_ I love you. I’m so sorry. Thank you. _

How could he be grateful for something so horrible? How could he not?

He heard a tiny, barely there sound and looked down. The dandelion toy had fallen from his pocket. He picked it up with a trembling hand. He breathed in, filled his air with lungs, the act that would have saved Byakuya’s life, the act he had forbidden. Then he blew.

Did he feel any spark of simple, childlike joy watching the fake seedlings fall away? He couldn’t tell; he was drowning in a bottomless sea of misery. He hadn’t been told what awaited him when this elevator stopped. It seemed to have been going longer than normal, but then again perhaps Makoto was wrong. In a short time, he had become a moon to Byakuya’s planet; without that familiar orbit, he was lost.

_ Play the game, Naegi.  _ He knew that’s what he’d say, if he were here.  _ Play to win. _

So Makoto sniffled and squared his shoulders and took a steadying breath. He looked toward the door, struggling to summon Byakuya’s unwavering ferocity. Then he looked down at the dandelion in his hand. He tugged the string to reassemble it, but blood had dried onto some of the soft wisps. They were misshapen with it, forever altered by his generosity. No matter how hard Makoto tried, they would never come back together again.


End file.
